


All That Matters

by LightningLaveau



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Comfort Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningLaveau/pseuds/LightningLaveau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief college AU PwithminimalP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Background:  
> Immensely popular transfer student Steve Rogers is an unending source of chagrin for fraternity president Tony Stark. Following a frat party feud, Loki's pissed off. Coulson's in the wrong place at the wrong time. That same night, Thor is called home following Odin's sudden lapse into acute illness. Left alone, Loki stews.

The silence was unbearable.

Loki tossed and turned, writhed, cursed, tumbled out of his narrow bed, began to pace, began to sweat, began to shake.

Had he _ever_ slept in a room without Thor? Anywhere, without Thor?

He could not recall.

The pulsing lack of his brother’s breathing and occasional deep grunts raged, incarnate, in his dark dorm room. Hours ago it had merely felt eerie, unsettling, yet as night fell it slowly, surely, inevitably shifted into a proper monster while Loki had turned his back, had tried to distract himself. But he could only live in denial for so long. So long, in this case, meant a few hours, tops, before he succumbed.

But the real damage, he supposed, came from the reverberating pang of his last words to Thor—lies, all of it, _always_ , but this time it mattered. This time he would have to face the consequences. Was facing them. Had.

Who even was he, without Thor to balance him out? Bitter, biting, cruel, and for what? He felt dizzy. Perhaps details like the hour of night and the fact that he had not eaten in over a day would have merited concern in another life, but not now—the aching hole in his reality where Thor had once somehow fit threatened to overcome him, drowning out all other thoughts, all other priorities, and he—

Who was he?

The world around him spun.

_Who?_

Loki—Loki was a troublemaker. Always had been. Trickster, of sorts. Since before he could remember walking. Discord had run through his blood, silently, surely, a comforting constant in an ever-changing environment. A trickster—and, until Odin’s last words to him, a quiet, stealthy one—never offensive, ever, as his aim had always been to bring merriment. Humor. A new window through which to view life. But not now. Not anymore. This—

_Thor—_

_Thor where_ are _you—?_

_Why are you not with—? not with m—_

Before, the world had spun. Now it reeled. It shoved him, tripped him, tangled his feet, and though he dug his hands into the dirt it felt as though even the option of crawling away had become too expensive of a luxury for his meager heart.

His arms gave out, and he collapsed into the earth, burrowed, drowned.

* * *

“ _Loki?_ ”

Not Thor’s voice. But a familiar one.

Loki squinted, trying to squash the revolving shapes into a single image—grass?

“The hell happened to you?”

“Stark?” The word came out in a rasp, a hiss— _surely_ this was not his voice—what—

“How long you been here? You look like shit. To put it politely.”

Loki swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. Slightly less dizzy. Slightly. “Where am I?”

After a moment’s hesitation, “The Summers quad. Bad night, huh?”

 _Summers_? The other end of campus from his dorm. Had Loki eaten anything since before Thor left he surely would have begun to regret it at this point. “Last—what—what day—?”

“Twenty-sixth, champ. How long you been out?”

Loki’s mind reeled at the daunting calculation required of him in this state. “When—when did Thor—”

From the sound of it, Stark had either knelt or sat in the grass next to him. “Thor what? When Thor left? ‘Cause that was two days ago. For real though, you need med services or something? You look like a zombie, and that’s me being diplomatic. Must’ve been some party.”

A horrid churning noise all but interrupted Stark, and Loki realized with a jolt that it had come from his stomach. “That…would explain…”

“When’d you last eat? Can you seriously not function for five seconds without Point Break Barbie?”—a hollow, shuffling sound, like nails against paper—“Because, believe it or not, I’m literally on my way back from a booze-n-snacks run at this exact moment. Here.”

Loki felt something pressed into his hand—foil, a pouch, candy? He slowly opened one eye, only to be rewarded with frigid, piercing wind. _Cold_.

“Blueberries,” Stark explained gently, tearing open another packet from himself. “Banner’s stuck here for the break, too—speaking of which, lemme call the poor guy—”

It took another ten seconds for Loki to realize he was lying on his side, one ear pressed into the earth. He gingerly moved one muscle at a time until he could lounge in a slightly more acceptable position for someone on a community field in broad daylight. _Yogurt-Dipped Blueberries_ , the packet shined up at him in deep purple and silver. The foil refused to tear in his hands, no matter how much pressure he attempted to apply; had he the strength he surely would have snarled.

“Jesus, you are down for the count.” Stark took the package from him for a brief instant to rip it open. “Eat up. No passing out. I happen to have no room in my schedule today to deal with campus EMS interviews.”

 _Yet you have room in it for playing nursemaid_ , Loki noted silently. Nonetheless he murmured in thanks and began to consume the snack. Sweet, tart, chewy. Almost enough to distract him from—from—

“You wanna talk?”

Stark’s face was completely somber, possibly for the first time Loki had ever seen. He swallowed, suddenly humiliatingly aware of a peculiar sensation of dampness trailing down his jaw, chilling his neck as the frigid wind continued to blow.

“Steve, uh, told me about Coulson…Thor texted me about y—his dad—okay, eat more, I think I get it now.” The sophomore grabbed one of the two paper grocery bags next to him and dumped out a multitude of fruit snacks, a party bag of tortilla chips, and something shaped suspiciously like a bottle of Espolón. “None for you right now,” Stark warned, catching the direction of Loki’s gaze. “Later, maybe. The other bag has more treats, yeah. Another reason I don’t plan on calling an ambulance.” He popped open the huge bag of chips.

If Loki had cried earlier, he was outright sobbing now.

 _God_ damn _it, Stark._

He finished the packet of blueberries. Finished another. A third. Stark began handing him chips, cracking open a jar of salsa, cracking jokes, muttering about their suspiciously enormous holiday homework load, asking if he cared whether Bruce joined, grinning when Loki nodded, shooting off texts like bullets, likely not just to Banner.

Banner, who showed up ten minutes later with a cooler, laptop, and blanket, stretched out on the grass after briefly squeezing Loki’s shoulder—the other shoulder, not the one Stark’s hand was—how long had Stark been rubbing his back? How long, without Loki having noticed? The heat of Stark’s blood, his steady pulse, now that Loki could sense it, enthralled him—such a contrast from the chilly November air assaulting every other square inch of his skin.

The sun was up, Loki realized with a start. Had been up. For a while. And Stark had never been one to voluntarily leave his room before ten or perhaps later, and had already—grocery run—

“…what, like Kung Fu? Because, and don’t take this the wrong way, Brucie, but you really don’t strike me as—”

“See, though, discipline might be the thing to help,” Banner cut in. “Breathing exercises, body alignment, balance—yeah, it’d be hard work, but it’s gotta be better than me beating everything I love into dust whenever I get, uh—”

A call alert rang off, not Stark’s. Yet Stark snatched the cell up anyways, his facing lighting up like a Bourbon Street window ad. “ _Betty Ross_? I take back everything I said before. You, my friend, are in _way_ over your head—”

“Hrumph.” Bruce snatched it back and answered his call, his face immediately softening as a cool voice greeted him from the other end of the line.

Stark grabbed the blanket from Banner’s pile and wrapped Loki up, tight, giving him just enough room to allow him to continue eating. “How you feeling?”

“Thank you,” Loki responded automatically. “For—for all this—”

Stark cupped Loki’s face in his hands. This…this was a lot. More than he had comfortably anticipated. He leaned into Stark’s hold, relishing the warmth.

“Don’t sweat it. You remember anything at all from yesterday? You might be feverish, though I’m getting mixed signs from your temperature…”

_Yesterday?_

Loki swallowed, forcing himself to attempt to relive the past fifty hours. One hand found his forehead, Stark’s thumb stroking the bridge of his nose, the other hand still cupping his cheek.

“…or, what’s the last thing you remember doing?”

He remembered Thor. Getting on that damned bus. Finally ridding himself of Loki’s chokehold. Nothing false about that to deny.

No—his stomach curdled—no, Thor was doing the right thing. The diplomatic thing. Always the good boy, always the golden son. His family needed him most—of course he should have been the one to go.

What if he had not hit Coulson? Had swerved away, in that last panicked second?

What if he too had gone along? Mustered the strength to look Hogun and Sif and the other two in the eye?

What if he too had visited—?

No. No point in agonizing over the impossible. It was not his place—not his prerogative.

“Mailed a check,” Loki remembered. “I sold my plane ticket the night I hit Coulson.”

Stark looked at him for a good ten seconds before exhaling through his mouth. But he did not pull his hands away. Thankfully.

"It was your idea to stay behind? Or did you have to?"

"Yes. Both. I didn't—I could have—I could have prevented it. All of it." _I could have stopped. I could have stopped._

"Coulson's recovering, you know. Rogers's been taking care of him nonstop. The nurses tried to get him to leave and the sunnavabitch convinced them to give him a 24-7 pass. He'll be fine." Stark grinned at Loki, gently stroking his cheek. "It's gonna be fine."

Words, and naught else. The intent here was maddeningly obvious: to pacify Loki, to render him this much more malleable. Whether this was indeed the truth, Stark clearly had no idea. Loki recognized that tone all too well.

But he kept his mouth shut, instead focusing on Stark's touch. Finding himself relishing it. Finding himself wanting to believe Stark's words. Losing himself in them. This...this, he could afford.

Some time later Stark began to shift, removing one hand to check his wristwatch. “Tell you what, let’s move this party inside so I can piss. Too damn cold out here.”

Banner laughed and begun moving Stark’s heavier grocery bag into his vinyl cooler, prudently topping the contents off with ice and soft drinks before zipping it shut, all while continuing his phone conversation.

“C’mon, soldier. Up.” Tony’s other hand found Loki’s waist, fingers digging in below his ribcage and supporting him there. Slowly, carefully, Loki edged upwards, leaning on the sophomore for support until he could feel the blood return to his legs. 

The walk back to their dorm, though long, felt at no point uncomfortable. Stark had an uncanny ability to keep a conversation going long past its due date, and Banner provided gentle commentary, bouncing jokes and insults off his science bro. Loki found himself smiling more often than not.

“And here we are. Anybody got their card on hand? Mine’s, uh, in my back pock—”

“Got it,” Banner laughed, swiping them into the building. A velvety gust of warmed air greeted them, soothing Loki’s wind-roughened cheeks and nose.

“Want us to escort you to your room? Or do you wanna hang out for a while?”

Loki froze. Not back to his room—surely it still smelled of Thor, a merciless reminder of his absence.

“What do you have planned for now?”

“Taking it easy,” Stark replied, hitting the elevator button for his and Banner’s floor. “What you wanna drink to, Brucie? Game or movie?”

“I, uh, actually…” Banner grinned and finally ended his call. “I have a date.”

“No _shit_. Ross?”

“Betty. Yes. In an hour. We’re catching the matinee for the Minority Report remake.”

Loki had to admire Banner’s composition, if anything. The man looked peaceful as all get out, his smile benign and his eyes misty. Hopefully Stark could take a hint nonetheless. _For everyone’s sake_.

“Then it’s you and me, buddy. At least once we get Fluffy dressed and properly pregamed—”

“Um, if you think I’m showing up inebriated to my first date with this woman in three years, Tony, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Stark and Banner’s room intrigued Loki. In no regard whatsoever did it resemble the one he shared with Thor; the floors were spotless, the shelves organized, the desks clean if only due to the sheer lack of contents sitting atop their surfaces. While Stark’s three sleek electronics reeked of unfathomably deep connections within Stark Industries R&D, Banner’s one ravaged Toughbook and cheap desk lamp seemed apologetic and downright scrawny.

“Hop on up,” Stark instructed, plugging an HDMI cable into his Starkpad. “What movie you in the mood for? I’m thinking something violent and ridiculous.”

Loki chuckled as he removed his shoes, still soaking in all the details of Tony’s half of the room. Sabbath, Queen, Zeppelin, and AC/DC posters hung alongside a periodic table and a signed black and white Paul Bettany photograph. Loki could hazard a guess that Banner’s two wall hangings—a chart of the electromagnetic spectrum, and a _Dark Side of the Moon_ print—had also likely passed through Stark’s hands at some point.

“Sounds lovely. And you have my thanks for the food. I can pay you back.”

“No biggie. Just lemme play nurse for a while and we’re good. You warming up any?” Stark brushed the back of one cool hand against Loki’s forehead and cheek, and _damn_ if that elicited no reaction whatsoever from somewhere deep down in his gut—

“Plenty. Good thing we don’t live further north or I’d have frozen to death.” Almost an enviable position. At least, it had certainly felt that way earlier.

“Hell, good thing I found your cataleptic self on my way back from the c-store or you’d have starved to death.”

“And thank you for that as well. And—” Loki turned his gaze toward Banner—“my thanks for your blanket.” Let no one say Frigga had not raised him at least this well.

Banner shrugged, grinning, ostensibly stuck on which of his two collared shirts would be more appropriate for a movie date. _Right_.

“Banner, you driving?” Stark asked, pulling 2-liter bottles of soda from their shared mini-fridge.

“No, but that’s not the point,” Banner sighed, buttoning a deep eggplant dress shirt while facing his armoire.

“Hmph. Loki? Care for a drink?”

Admittedly, a drink sounded _fantastic_ right now.

“Don’t think I don’t see that look on your face. Tequila? Kahlua? Banner, we got any coffee left?”

“Kahlua,” Loki repeated sheepishly. He clutched the blanket more tightly around himself. Someone had fitted a padded cover or two or three over Stark’s mattress, because he sincerely doubted that dorm beds customarily felt this phenomenally soft. His certainly had not.

Loki sunk into the bed, feeling the blood rush to his face—but he couldn't help it, not after what had felt like an eternity of bitter cold. There went Banner, bidding him a polite farewell and begging Tony to _cool it_ before nearly skipping out the door, a slow grin spreading across his face as he waved.

“Don’t you look snug,” Stark laughed, reaching over Loki to place a steaming mug on the shelf overhead some time later. “Scootch over.”

Loki obediently slid closer to the wall. Somehow they both fit, with Tony sitting up and leaning back against the adjacent wall as he fast-forwarded through the DVD’s trailers and commercials.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Loki whispered, altogether unsure whether this was really the time to bring it up. After everything Stark had done, it could so easily come off as ungrateful. He could hear Frigga's chiding in his ears. "You've been kind, really, but—"

“I also don’t have to drink myself into a stupor every Wednesday afternoon. But look at where we are now.” He pointedly tossed back his Espolón as though it were water. Asshole.

“This will mean a lot to Thor. I know you only met two months ago, but this is the kind of thing he will remember years from now. Although—" Loki inhaled sharply. "I’m guessing you’ve already figured that out, else why would you…” He trailed off, realizing he had forgotten a crucial point.

_All assuming Thor ever speaks to me again._

The thought burned in the back of his throat. He took a sip of the leaded coffee.

Stark glanced at him from the corner of his eye, muting the DVD with his remote. “You seriously think I’m helping you just to get brownie points from your brother?”

It felt like a punch to his chest. He had expected banter, expected sarcasm, anything but this blunt demand for him to—to own up—but up to what?

Loki sat up to reach eye level with Stark. “Well, yes. Given what I'd just—”

“Yeah, you hit one of my friends with a car and got in a fight with your brother. But you know what?” He set his glass down on the desk and turned to face Loki. “That’s no fucking reason to leave someone on the ground to die. Yeah, I was bitching about the emergency service earlier as a joke, but do not ever take me for someone legitimately that selfish. ”

Ah. “You’ve let Rogers get to you.”

That look, there. Sharp as a blade, and hot. Loki had hit a nerve. Hell, it was where his talents had always lain; testing people had come as naturally to him as fighting and arguing had come to Thor. For all his smooth talking, Stark was just as insecure as the rest of his peers, if not vastly more.

“This isn’t about Rogers,” Stark hissed. “It’s about you. And If I find out later that you’ve run off again to die in a field without warning, I am going to be pissed. I’m not saying I’m going to hold myself personally responsible for everything you do, but I like to think my actions this far have at least merited a _chance_ to help you get through this, whatever it is. So you’d better inform me how to prevent any future occurrences. Fair?”

Loki blinked, taken aback. “Then why? I’ve done nothing but harm to you and your friends. You needn’t invest so much in me. It’s none of your business, what I…what I do…” His voice cracked near the end there. Betraying him? Betraying him how? Surely there was nothing to—

“Bullshit. I’m invested in all of you. You’re the only people I have anymore, and, yes, _that includes you_ , Odinson. Don’t think I wouldn’t do the same for Banner or Coulson or god damn Fury or your br—hey. Hey…”

Exactly what part of Stark’s words that tore Loki utterly in half was beyond him, at least for the time being. His eyes burned; he squeezed them shut as they filled, his senses dulling as his body curled up—whether for defense, or due to exhaustion, he could not tell.

That pulsing warmth again—on one shoulder first, then spreading across his back. Somehow Stark’s hands could cut through the numbness, through any barrier Loki could try to erect, leaving him utterly undone within. He leaned into Stark, in spite of himself, yes, surely, suddenly petrified that his icy forehead would bring Stark’s warm throat any discomfort—

“I mean it,” Tony Stark murmured, his lips just brushing Loki’s temple. “You can trust me. If you want to.”

Loki swallowed, shaking. This felt—Stark felt so familiar, now. So much—so much like Thor. His words, his actions, everything meshed, and suddenly Loki felt a faint bloom of a sensation he had not experienced in years.

Desire.

His face burned at the realization. He reached for the coffee, to use as an excuse if anything. When coupled with the Kahlua, its bitterness transformed into something altogether stronger and sweeter, though not overpowering.

“Thank you,” Loki breathed into his mug before taking great, monstrous gulps far more suited to his brother’s mannerisms than to his own.

Stark continued to rub his fingertips into Loki’s shoulders and back. “Anytime. You still want to watch this? ‘cause I’m happy to chat. Banner won’t ever drink with me. Smart guy.”

“I suppose I rarely see you outside of that group,” Loki admitted carefully, wanting to take as much of Stark as he could before their inevitable separation.

“Huh, true. What are you studying here? Liberal arts? Underwater basket weav—?”

“Communications. Odin always hinted that both Thor and I were to attend law school, yet…” He gave a noncommittal jerk of the head. “Surely one per generation would satisfy his forefathers. Or so I'd like to hope.”

“I knew Thor was a pre-law, but you too? Your folks must make bank.”

“Both Odin and Frigga are prominent lawyers in the city,” Loki admitted. “Odin likes—always liked to uphold this idea that it was a noble career. He would lecture on and on…” He laughed joylessly. “Frigga was a lot more realistic about the shit that goes on, though she’d never complain to Odin’s face. At least not that I’d seen.”

 _Mother_.

How he missed her. He would call her later, or tomorrow—on Thanksgiving. Appropriate. Speaking of which, “What do you have planned for tomorrow? Do you have any family to call?”

Stark’s mouth was a grim line. “None. Neither of my parents had siblings. If they had any cousins, I’ve never heard of them.”

 _None?_ Loki, for all his imaginative capabilities, could not _fathom_ an entire family of one. He could not even count all of his first cousins on one hand.

Zero relatives, including parents.

That stung him. Yet another baffling, invisible reality Stark had to face, unbeknownst to him.

“You must miss them.”

“My ma, yeah. Dad…” Tony wrinkled his nose. “I guess he was a good guy. ‘S what I heard from other people. Genius, developed everything from energy reactors to missiles to mechanized bandages… so, yeah, didn’t get to see him a whole lot anyways.”

“He must have been proud of you. Your proficiency in science—”

“If he was, he never told me,” Stark replied. “Always kept pushing. Nothing I ever did was good enough. I’m getting another drink, you want another drink? I need another drink.”

 _That escalated quickly._ Nonetheless Loki handed back his empty mug. “I’ll take whatever you take.”

Stark laughed at that. “Let’s hope you don’t regret that statement later.”

* * *

Two hours later and Stark was beyond buzzed.

“Who the _fuck_ are you? What the _fuck_ have you been doing your whole life? Yeah, lemme tell you, when I saw Thor for the first time my first—my first _thought_ —was this guy can drink me under the table, and then _you_ …you’re so pretty ‘n’ polite and definitely not frat party material and mother _fucker_ —”

“My family’s European. I started drinking at thirteen,” Loki cackled, tucking that one inadvertent compliment away in his memory for a rainy day. Stark gave an exasperated sigh and reached for the half-empty 151 bottle.

“Hot damn. Level with me though, look at me, big fella.” He handed Loki yet another shot glass topped off with the rum. “Gimme something to toast to, will you? I get the feeling today sucked for you and yesterday was even worse and all I wanna do is make you feel as good as I do. Not fucking kidding. Gimme something to work with, _please_.”

Loki shook his head, smiling over the rim of the glass. “ _No_ idea. My family scares me, I have no friends, I hate my major…you pick.”

“No _friends_? Bullshit. I’m your friend. Brucie’s your friend. Nat likes to fuck with you but I promise she’d kill any motherfucker tried’a lay a hand on you. Drink to us, Loki. You know you want to.”

“Oh, Stark,” Loki sighed, leaning his head back to laugh. “So persuasive.”

“Tony,” he corrected, pointing to the sky. “ _Tony_ , call me Tony. Not Stark. Not fucking Anthony. Do I look like some uppity Ivy League polo player? Because—”

“Alright, alright. Tony. Come here.”

Tony hopped onto the bed, rocking expertly onto his knees, the contents of his glass barely even rippling. Somehow his motor skills remained impeccable, though any inhibitions that had once existed in his communication were clearly shot. Tony pressed his free hand against the wall to steady himself regardless, just close enough to Loki’s neck to brush against his hair. Two inches closer and Tony would be straddling Loki where he sat, with his long legs dangling off the side of the bed. It was the little details like these that hit Loki hardest, unfurling the petals of that covetous beast within. He drank in everything Stark had to offer—scent, words, expressions, his breathy laughter, his beating heart, the unending stream of curses—so very many deities' names and titles, even and especially for a proclaimed atheist. Nothing escaped Loki's eyes and ears, though he ached nonetheless for a chance to experience some part of Stark with his tongue. In any case, Loki felt pleased.

He tipped the rim of his minute glass against Tony’s. “To all of you,” he murmured.

To say the 151 burned like the fires of hell on its way down would be a generous understatement, though Loki savored it nonetheless. Tony gave a hoarse laugh before reaching up to put his glass on the shelf and presenting Loki with a close-up of his chest for one second. Just long enough.

“Tony…” How he loved that word in his mouth. “May I ask you something?”

Tony murmured an affirmative and slowly pressed himself into Loki’s lap, sending his thoughts reeling. _Stark—Tony—how drunk_ are _you? Always, this—?_ ...Not that Tony ever needed an excuse to get horny, he had explained at great lengths earlier.

“What—” Loki ran his tongue over his lower lip, suddenly feeling dehydrated. He thirsted. _Focus, dullard_. “I mean...can you tell me about this?”

He gently tapped the shallow, circular protrusion in the center of Tony’s chest, just visible through his shirt now that Loki had received such a fine view. It felt solid under his finger— _what—?_

“This,” Tony breathed for a moment. Just one moment. He flung his shirt off the next.

 _Damn_ , Loki thought, nearly aloud. Sure, Tony’s body could have passed for conventionally beautiful—his muscles not particularly large nor well-defined, but certainly not a bad sight—but it was the surgical steel device sitting in the other student’s chest that elicited his attention first and foremost. It glowed, quite faintly, nothing obnoxious—but— _why_ —?

“Got in an accident when I was little,” Tony murmured as though answering Loki's unsung question, his face suddenly flushing as though he’d only just now realized what he had done. “Had to have this surgically implanted to keep me from dying. Keeps my heart running. Like a—an insulin pump, or pacemaker, but…built in.” He immediately grinned. “I’m a _cyborg_.”

“Yes, yes you are,” Loki hummed, nonetheless dazzled by the elegant machine. He gingerly lifted his hand again, making sure to tilt his head just so. “May I…?”

“Go ahead,” Tony replied, clasping Loki’s hand and pulling it to his chest. “My dad actually invented it. ‘t’s an arc reactor. Can power itself for fifteen lifetimes.”

“It’s beautiful.” Loki gently encircled the reactor with his hands, tracing its outline in an unending spiral. That seam, where flesh met metal—why on _earth_ did it enchant him so? And to think Stark had been carrying this secret the entire time. He continued exploring Stark's chest with his fingertips, wondering with no small pang of jealousy whether any of the others knew about this gorgeous anomaly.

Tony shuddered in his hands, mouth absently hanging open, and Loki caught his eye— _oh_ , oh. That look.

“Don’t stop,” he purred, slowly sinking down back into Loki’s lap, soaking him in warmth.

“You like this,” Loki whispered, returning his gaze to Tony’s eyes. Definitely not a question.

“Yeah…yeah. R-right there—”

“Here?” Loki circled his finger around the area that had made Tony shudder so, spiraling in closer until the sophomore finally collapsed, his heart rate soaring against Loki’s shoulder.

“Oh, look, now you’ve trapped my hands. How d’you expect me to—”

Tony’s mouth cut him off once more. But not in the exact same fashion as previously.

Loki should have expected it. He truly should have. This was the fruit of his labors and damn if he never got what he wanted after focusing his efforts so. Particularly when the goal was something so famously easily elicited from Tony Stark.

But it still shocked him nonetheless, this mouth against his that burned of high-proof rum and coffee liqueur, that white-hot tongue running across Loki’s bottom lip, well-practiced lips catching Loki’s startled exhale in an all-encompassing snare. Someone’s pulse—Tony’s? or his own?—skyrocketed into a feverish blaze. He sighed into Tony’s mouth, coaxing that scorching tongue onto his own.

Loki freed his arms to ensnare Tony and pulled them back down onto the bed, more than happy to let its assigned owner pin him down. Stark took and took and took, breaking the kiss to mouth Loki’s jawline, his neck, slowing for an achingly long time on his collarbone. A startled whimper escaped his mouth—how? when and where exactly had he lost control?—as Tony’s tongue trailed lower, catching at the tip of the wide v-neck of Loki’s thin cotton shirt.

“Miss this part,” Tony breathed absently. “On me, I mean. ‘s all metal now. Not smooth, not like—like yours—” He looked almost longingly at the stretch of skin just peeking over Loki’s plunging neckline before returning his mouth to the spot.

Loki tried to reply, he truly did—comfort, agreement, laughing, _anything_ —only to have the wind knocked out of him as Tony’s hands found the hemline of his shirt. He dug in without warning, tracing hard lines into the contours of his waist and stomach, the soft edge between his legs and hips—those fingers were moving south _fast_ —

“God _damn_ it, Stark—” Loki hissed, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck, catching his mouth with his own. He had asked for this. He had received. And still that dark, lonely core within him hungered. He drove his tongue deeper into Tony’s mouth, exploring and tangling and fighting to stay in. But then Tony’s deft fingertips discovered that infuriatingly sensitive vein on the underside of his cock, and with a single press Loki found himself spluttering into a frenzied stupor.

“How about that,” Tony laughed into Loki’s mouth, massaging him there mercilessly. He gently tugged at the hem of Loki’s shirt. “Whatcha say?”

Loki growled, reaching to pull it off himself, but Tony caught his hand.

“Nuh-uh. This is my treat. You just relax. Deal?”

“Then hurry _up_.” Loki chewed his tongue, nearly drawing blood, as Tony grinned— _sharp,_ those canines—and pulled his shirt up, one tiny section at a time, lightly running his nails against Loki’s stomach and chest as he became more and more exposed. Tony slowly unbuttoned his fly with one hand, deliberately teasing. _Bastard._ His other hand remained in Loki’s pants, working him into shape with an unforgiving pressure, slowly picking up a rhythm. He took care to hone in on every soft and sensitive area he could find, licking his lips in triumph as Loki twitched and heaved into his fingers. Loki felt his eyes sting and fill, perhaps for the hundredth time that day. But this case was absolutely worth the ninety nine others combined.

Stark yanked his jeans and boxers off, retracting the active hand for a single miserable moment, and the gaze that returned to catch Loki’s nearly took his breath away. Loki had noticed Stark’s sultry eyelashes, the gold tinges splitting through the rich brown of his irises, the way his eyebrows perpetually hitched to add a good five years of age to his baby face, all long ago, months ago—and something burned, Loki realized, something far more personal and invasive than he had ever observed in that of any of his previous partners. The look tiptoed all too haphazardly the line between captivated and fanatical.

 _But I_ like _this._ And he did, more than anything else in recent memory, and for some reason this felt—what was the word?— _significant_ , as though it would weigh on him for years to come, threatening to catch him off guard in those unpredictable, vulnerable moments, the ones destined to define lives.

“Hey…hey, don’t cry…” Tony lowered his torso onto Loki’s, gently easing himself forward. Loki welcomed the heat, if not the advice. How dare Stark—how _dare_ he endeavor to give Loki’s life definition, so soon into their acquaintanceship— _how—_

“Don't tell me what to do,” Loki snarled, working his hands into the knotted muscles of Tony’s back. Tony inhaled sharply, writhing and shuddering as Loki worked his way down from Tony’s neck to his lower back, kneading his ass appreciatively.

“W-what, being miserable a—oh _god—a_ life goal of yours? ‘cause I don’t think I’m willing to let that happen.” He mouthed the center of Loki’s chest once more, freeing his hands to tug Loki’s pants down to his knees and murmuring in approval at Loki’s decision to have worn nothing underneath.

Skin on skin. Stark’s misshapen back muscles both intrigued and horrified Loki, gnarled and sensitive—far too much, for someone so young. Loki relished every little sound that escaped Tony’s mouth as he worked, pleasured moaning punctuated with hisses and yelps. But the concern still burned in his mind, threatening to slow them to an impasse. Best to make it blunt.

“The hell happened to your _back_?”

“Dunno,” Tony croaked, sniffling as Loki’s fingertips dug into the base of his spine. “I, uh, lean...lean forward— _shit—Loki!_ —lean a lot—reading. Computer. I dunno. Ughnn—”

“Better? Or worse?” Loki shifted his hands, feeling for any telltale flinching or shuddering.

“Better. A lot. You’re—” Tony arched into his touch, eyes spilling over. “ _Loki,_ god _damn_ it—”

“Problem?”

Tony snarled, pinning Loki’s arms over his head with one hand. “I _said_ , let me do it. Let me take care of you. You’ve done enough.” His free hand pulled Loki’s jeans all of the way off before returning slowly but surely to his hips, caressing the entire length of his leg on its way up. Loki trembled violently, feeling his breath catch in his throat as Tony’s tongue explored the pulsing hot skin of his inner thigh.

“Stark—Tony— _please_ —” It was too much, too wet, he was losing control, had lost it—

“Wish you could see you now,” Tony murmured into the swirling patterns of dark hair on Loki’s abdomen. “You’re stunning. Gorgeous. I always knew it. The second I saw you— _Christ_ , if I’d only _known_ —”

Loki summoned the last of his strength to throw one last taunt. “You’re just saying that because you’re drunk. Don’t be rid—Stark— _no—”_

Tony cut him off yet again, drawing his tongue mind-numbingly slowly up Loki’s shaft, from hilt to tip, before enclosing his lips around him completely and trapping him in with that infernal tongue—too much, too much, never— _never—_

Screaming inwardly, Loki grasped the back of Tony’s head, desperate for something, _anything_ to anchor him in place, lest he shatter like glass. The possibility was real, and near, and for an abysmal eternity there was only Stark’s wicked mouth in between his legs, Loki’s nails all but drawing blood from the nape of his neck as he bucked and heaved from the attentions of that damned _tongue._

But just before Loki could fathom the white light of release, Stark stopped _—_ maddeningly, horrifyingly, grinning from ear to ear as he caught Loki’s crazed punches with ease. “Not yet. Not yet.”

“Then _what_ —” Loki began crying openly as Tony shook his head, reaching for a tube of oil from the highest shelf overhead. “Sta— _Tony—_ ”

“Just say the word,” Tony murmured against his ear, tongue darting into the shell and tormenting him there. “Tell me what you want.”

“Come—Tony, _please_ —” Loki ground himself up into Stark’s groin, encircling his legs around the sophomore’s hips in a wordless plea. He could taste Tony’s smirk in his mouth as Tony slicked himself down, fingers first—and he _felt_ it, definitely more than one inside of him—how Stark could deign to be so cruel was beyond him, but Loki clenched automatically, trapping him in, pleading silently for more.

And more he received as Tony pushed in a third, first stroking that furl of skin, effectively loosening him as time slowed to a crawl; Loki’s begging gained in volume if not coherency, his moans nearly echoing around the room. “ _Damn_ , you’re tight. How long’s it been...? Oh, Christ, listen to you…”

Loki felt Tony drape himself gently over his torso, one ear pressed to his throat— _oh._ The sound, he wanted more sound—and Loki obliged, close to mewling as he felt a fourth finger slide in, almost an entire hand torturing him from the inside.

“Ready,” Stark breathed into Loki’s collarbone, laughing softly to himself.

Loki could only groan in response, hypnotized by the circling motions of Tony’s fingers within him. He shuddered violently as they retracted, only to shriek as something far thicker took their place. Stark was wicked hot, more branding iron than human, and Loki found himself praying that he would wake up to find himself tattooed in scorch marks after all this. He wanted a mark, a scar, a gaping hole in his chest, _anything_ to bind Tony to him, a lone weapon against the mighty threat of separation—of loneliness.

It was that venomous kiss, that dagger of a memory of a great looming fear that seized Loki then, threatening to rip him apart—the pain became real, overpowering him, an electric current that magnified every touch, every word, into a monstrous assault—Loki began to panic, began to scream, grappling blindly for anything, anyone—

“ _Jesus_ ,” Tony hissed, grinding in further as Loki tore at his back. His arousal-strained voice sliced through the dark, golden and vibrant as ever. “You still with me?”

Loki nodded, his lips trembling. This was so much. Too much. After everything, his miserable state from only a few hours ago felt an eternity away—gone, as Tony Stark filled his world, allowing nothing else to compete. Stark would not share. Could not. The look in his eyes had conveyed as much—still did. They blazed.

Tony kissed him, beginning to circle his hips as Loki clenched around him, mouth gaping, eyes dilating—so close, so unbearably close—

“Stay with me. Stay with me.” Tony repeated the words on end, a binding mantra. Loki moaned, hearing the soft sounds reverberate through his body. Stark would remember this. He would remember this. No matter what was to come, a single, invisible, unbreakable thread now connected them—for better or worse.

“I’ll stay,” Loki hissed, his release burning through him in a white-hot spasm. Stark sighed into his mouth, pleased, and collapsed with a final shuddering thrust, all but crushing Loki under dead weight. The sigh became a laugh—not jeering, not scathing—but amused, pleased. Happy. Seldom used, that word.

“Good. Don’t forget.” Loki savored the vibrations of Stark's words as they trickled across his skin, rippling inward, blossoming into a steel net around his core, holding him together there. For a quiet few minutes they lay there, unmoving, save for the faintest brush of fingertips against Loki's cheek.

Some minutes later Tony eventually began to pull out—gently, lest Loki panic. “Here, let’s clean off.”

The hot shower afterwards—Tony all but carrying Loki against him, soaping his skin, his hair—toweling him dry, tucking him into his own bed—making some excuse to Banner who stumbled into the dark far later, expensive brandy and floral perfume on his breath—all blurred together in a warm and golden haze, combating the killing loneliness that had threatened him for so long before—pushing it back, deep into the void from whence it had come—

“I won’t forget.”

Sleep came easily, falling over him like a soft veil as Stark threw one arm over his stomach, holding him tight. Even the rushing wind outside dulled to an agreeable hush.

A silence most sweet.


End file.
